For A Local, On Plastic Wrapped Display Plates in Front of French Quarter Restaurants, That Never Get Eaten

There in Leninist repose
lies the hymn of past
skeletal linguine alfredos

and beckons call to each passing
Midwestern squall of children,
human adult parents in the thrall
of Hurricanes! The High Life!

No pause to recall where all this Greek
afterlife Troy-trodding merriment
sows her roots–

how this eternal carnival of fools
can eat past the cellophane spools

to find, at long last, lost fast;
in the Bywater there is a flavor
that casts her ribbons over the
flayed remnants of the day

and staying, gives permission
to the palms to sway.

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